'Ya Ever...?

'ya ever have somebody tell you something of yours is "sexy" when you couldn't care less about that thing?

Like, for example, let's say you examine disability claims for the Social Security Administration.  And let's say you took this job in the first place to get insurance and money so that your wife could fight to keep her children from being stolen away from her in a horrible custody lawsuit her ex-husband continued to fight over the course of 8 years.  And let's say the only reason you have kept this job is because you can't find another job that will pay you the kind of money that you and your family need to sustain an unrealistic amount of income needed for paying off previous legal and court fees and ungodly amounts of child support payments which will continue for at least 4 more years.  So you have your job, really, so that things don't get worse than they are now, and your wife can continue to be a mother part-time to her youngest while paying her ex-husband to abuse everyone around him.  America, huh?  Pretty swell.  So, basically, your job is survival.  Now, let's say, somebody comes along and tells you that something in your job is sexy.  Like, for example, let's say that your job tracks how many cases you get rid of, or dispose, in a week.  And you're supposed to average a little more than 14 cases per week, let's say.  And this week, you've disposed of 24 already.  And when your immediate supervisor, who is a decent guy, hears this, he responds with, "Pretty sexy, huh?"  And my gut response is, "No.  No, it's not sexy.  It's survival.  It's bludgeoning a yak so that you can not die.  It's drippy and rancid and foul.  It's a product of slogging through blood and body parts.  I do not see the world the way you see the world.  I do not see sexy in this.  I see not-death in this.  I see a lifeline which I hope holds for 4 more years, and which I hope I can sustain without going completely insane.  I have already begun to realize how magnificently broken I am mentally, so I may not last, but this, sir, is not sexy.  This is the antithesis of sexy.  This is an oozing zit on the hairpiece of Donald Trump's colon."  But I don't say that in real life.  He says, "Pretty sexy, huh?"  And I respond with, "Yup."

'ya ever like something that nobody else likes?

Like, for example, you watch a television show called... oh, let's make up a name like The Unscrapeable Crinny Splick.  And you watch it and you laugh hysterically at it.  Your wife watches it with you, and while she's laughing at it, she's not laughing at it as much as you are.  And you love her for it and think little of it.  Then you go out in the world and start talking to people.  "Have you watched Unscrapeable Crinny Splick?" you ask somebody at work.  No, they tell you with a flat face.  Hm, you think, odd response to such a wonderful show.  I'll keep trying.  So you mention it again to somebody else.  They, too, have not seen the show, and even more, they're not planning on seeing the show.  "It's too silly," somebody says.  You are feeling a little daunted, but you press on.  You ask more people about it.  "I've heard of it, but I'm not going to watch it.  I don't like shows about women."  "I've seen something about it.  But... nah."  You don't actually run across anyone who has seen it, until you get to the bar and suddenly somebody has seen the show!  You're excited as you ask them if they liked it.  "I watched a couple of episodes, but it wasn't that great," the bar person says.  "It just wasn't..." she can't finish the thought, so she starts a new one.  "You know the show with Jane Fonda and Lilly Tomlin?  Grace and Nancy?  Or Jenny and June?  Something like that?"  I tell her yes, I did know about that show and I had watched some of it because I really enjoy Jane Fonda and Lilly Tomlin.  What I don't tell her is that the show is brain gauze, a way for me to push aside the pain of everyday living and not think about the trauma for a second while predictable story lines and mediocre writing fill my sensorium and I don't have to engage anything painful for just a second.  That's what the show is to me, and you certainly don't go around recommending brain gauze to people who aren't mentally ill like you are.  Yes, you tell the bar friend, yes I know the show Grace and Frankie.  "Now THAT show," the bar friend says, her eyes getting wide with excitement, "is great!  There was a moment where it started to get too serious and too real, but quickly it went back to being really funny.  I just love that show!"  And you feel the almost-unanimous disregard of something you value like the Unscrapeable Crinny Splick in concert with the praise of something you almost-disregard like Grace and Frankie like a dumbbell being laid upon your chest as you try to float in the pool.  And, ultimately, you can't keep floating.

'ya ever feel like you simply don't belong?  You don't fit in?  You can't find a comfortable place to sit, or lay down, or even stop and breathe because it all is uncomfortable?  Like a shirt cut slightly wrong, or pants that fit in the waist but not in the thighs, or a haircut right after you get it that's a little too short in the places where it was supposed to be longer? 

'ya ever feel that way for years?